For The Love Of Sanity
by AllTheWrongLoves
Summary: "One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too." AU In Which Shaun is a therapist encounturing an off minded Desmond from the military. *Rated M for gore, death and cursing.
1. Chapter 1

**Sully's Secret is going to stay untouched for a bit. I'm expanding my skills a bit and writing something for my English class that I thought I'd change up a bit for you guys.** **Assassins Creed is another love of mine as of lately so…enjoy what my imagination creates. I own nothing.**

** Preface**

"Every time I close my eyes, I see things I wish would be erased. But they never stop. All the chaos and blood and HORROR I saw are burned behind my eyelids. When I sleep, I don't dream. I just…relive it."

"_Every_ time?" Those piercing brown orbs snap right to me and rack a chill down my spine by its intensity. I see the insanity, I see the fear, but I don't see the hopelessness I did the first time I visited.

"Every single time." He whispers. For some reason, the fact that his face is so calm is what shatters my heart.

XxX

"You're mad!" I grate out through clenched teeth, seething in my own rage while Mr. Vidic-my boss- merely studies my contorted face. He spins in that insufferable chair of his so he stares out at the landscape of New York. Always lovely, but that's besides the point. I've never wanted to hurt someone so much in my life! Egotistical didn't fit him; no, pompous was closer. Lack of humility was an issue, but not as terrible as his lack of understanding in the counseling field.

"Mister Hastings, you've become a highly recommended physiologist in very little time. You're considered one of the best in the building next to Miss Stillman. I'm sure you can handle this." I inhale through my nose and unconsciously push up my glasses, calming myself down. This man is mental, if not just a right out asshole. Either one he's pulling all my strings the wrong way.

"Sir," I nearly growl, "You're asking me to visit a man who is locked in his own apartment due to requests from his landlord! He's more than just uncertain of something! He could kill me!" My voice rises slightly as I set my hands firmly on his desk, drilling a hole through that leather seat with bitter annoyance. I've never refused a client. Never. But something about the profile Vidic gave me isn't right. The man's younger than me and he's labeled as some sort of sociopath. Endless domestic violence orders, loud noise complaints… He apparently served in the army, which equals post-traumatic stress disorder, or worse. All this sums up into one big stamp that says 'death wish.'

"Why don't you just have Stillman do it? She's always so willing to take jobs that'll kill her." Lucy Stillman, my frenemy that knows how deeply I despise her careless riskiness in our line of work.

Vidic turns in that chair, his surprisingly tired eyes meeting mine in a challenge. I won't do it. This bloody man could kill me and my boss wants me to go to his apartment. _Alone._ He sighs, and at first I believe I won until he slides the documents back over to me, his look softer for some unknown reason. I'm about to throw another angry rant in his face when he murmurs something that makes me pause.

"He needs help just as much as anyone, Mister Hastings." Guilt stomps on me stronger than I've ever felt. Damn it. I let my eyes roam down the papers, some words catching my attention. Highly unstable. Unpredictable. Not to be around firearms. What am I getting myself into?

No pictures. Just his information. I think Vidic senses my falter; I feel the papers slip underneath my fingertips and I'm forced to read over them again. I'm not actually considering am I? This man lives in the grittiest part of the city, could possibly kill me, and has a tendency to frighten those around him! And here I am, in my boss's office bloody thinking about seeing him! Forget Vidic, I think I'm the one that's gone mad. I've dealt with plenty of patients that can't deal with society, but this one seems to have chosen isolation. I sigh; I stamp my foot, and then sigh again. God this is hard. Risk my safety and see this guy, or decline and let Stillman take over? Tough choice. Mr. Vidic just watches me go through my turmoil, patiently waiting for my answer.

I raise my arms and let them drop back to my sides. He wins.

"Alright. When do I see him?" I relent, lifting the papers to seriously examine them.

Vidic sets his chin on the back of his hands, leaning closer.

"Tomorrow." The asshole knew I'd take the job.

XxX

"This doesn't sound very pleasant, Shaun." Leo confides while he sketches on his canvas, his little paint shop an absolute mess as always. Messy or not it was always a nice place to go after work. I groan and swirl my coffee as I examine the papers for the millionth time. Every time I look at them, my eyes find something new. Like the world keeps finding reasons for me to retreat and let Stillman have this one. This time it's family issues. The list never ends, does it?

"Tell me about it. It's not even the fact he's a possible sociopath. He's a former military member Leo! Do have any idea what they train those people to do?" I give myself shudders thinking about the possible skills and brutal ways those men work for hours. They become professional survivors with amateur labels. Leo reties his hair, scooting on his stool to focus on me.

"Do you have a name?" Of course I do. I already have it singed into my head. I already imagine a face to fit the name, I already dread walking to his door and saying, 'Are you Desmond Miles?' I swallow a mouthful of coffee to nod, far too conscious of my jitteriness. God, no pictures doesn't help. For all I know- this Desmond could be every smaller man's nightmare, massive, hulking anger ready to snap my neck like a twig. I'm not thinking professionally at all. I'm thinking like a teenager waiting for his bullies to come pick on him after school. I rub the bridge of my nose and pour out the rest of latte from my cup. Caffeine will not help my situation.

"If this is bothering you so much, why accept? You're always so quizzical when it comes to patients." Leonardo mentions before he turns back to his painting, as if everything was alright. As if he hadn't just proved a point. Why did I take the job if all I was going to do was moan about it? Truth be told I didn't know. I never had any deep motivation to study physiology in school. I just studied and ended up a therapist. I hadn't been the best in the beginning, being raised in a home where 'Your problem not mine' was a motto. I had grown to taking it seriously though. People trusted me with their thoughts, their fears. I guess I actually grew sympathy and understanding of other's struggles…

This Desmond Miles was struggling, or someone thought he was struggling. Whether he kills me or not, I need to suck it up and see him. Talk to him. Do what I've come to know as a career and lifestyle. I watch Leo for a bit longer, the silence giving me a heavy feeling of awareness. I was going to see Desmond, whether I wanted to or not.

Like Vidic said, 'He needs help just as much as anyone.'

XxX

"Ten-fifty." The greasy, intimidating cab driver slurs, taking my money without glance. I feel just a bit of dread when he speeds away as soon as the door thunks shut. I puffed a breath and examined the apartment address I had memorized for my visit. The building itself looked like it hated existence, covered in water stains and graffiti that made absolutely no sense at all, not to mention almost unnoticeable blood stains. Is that broken glass? I flinch as distant gun shots echo down the street. What was I doing here? Oh, right, there's a patient inside. I stand there for a good five minutes, throwing possibilities around my head and scenarios from which it could happen. I don't really get to see if there are alternatives when shouts of outrage and more gunshots hit my ear drums uncomfortably close.

I rush in like the apartment is a bloody safe haven.

The inside is just as much of an eyesore; ruined carpet, destroyed ceiling, dirt and grime on every surface possible. Somewhere in the building, awful rap music is thumping into the foundation and making old migraines resurface. It's depressing and keeps me on edge as I search every door for 33-B, having no luck. Even thought there's practically no one in the halls, it feels like I'm being watched from every angle. And I have serious doubts the place has security cameras…probably just has one bloody pit bull. A couple of shady children appear to be silently judging me as I search for the apartment door.

Of course they would be. I stick out like a sore thumb in this area; my black slacks and work shirt fitting and appearing clean, the young boy harboring jeans so baggy it's a miracle they're not at his ankles. His hat is worn backwards and he looks at me as if I'm some sort of prey. The girl-most likely his sister- has a raggedy double layer shirt and ripped up dark wash jeans, her interest in me more curious than threatening. I stop me trek in front them. The boy rises in eyebrow as if daring me to provoke, while the girl rests her cheeks on her knuckles and continues her study of me.

"Um, good afternoon; could either of you happen know where 33-B is?" The pair I've deemed siblings throw glances at each other, the cocky expression that had been on the boy's face gone. His eyes come back to me, all seriousness.

"You talking about that Miles psychopath?" The way he spits the words off his tongue like some bad meal turn my stomach in uncertainty. What could he possibly have done to anger children? Or is it their parents warning them about him, filling their heads with assumptions? My uncertainty is put to rest when the girl speaks up.

"Oh quit acting so goddamn tough, Tosh! I oughta tell Des you said that." Quite a mouth on a girl so young looking. The boy recoils from the threat and shuts his mouth, avoiding eye contact and pulling out a sucker.

"It's true, thought." He mutters grumpily and fully turns away from us. She turns back to me, no hardness in her eyes and stands. She's awfully short, her pixie-like haircut framing her face in complete openness.

"You're on the right track Mister; he lives just down the hall. But he might not answer because he's usually still asleep around this time. If you want though, I can wake him up." Asleep? Bloody asleep at two in the afternoon? Lovely. Strange sleep patterns mean complicated schedules. I throw a glance down the hall, back to the girl. Why not, today's already been jarring and it's not even into the session yet! Why not let a possible ten year old girl wake up a rumored psychotic former soldier for me? I open mouth and shrug, not having a word for objection or agreement. The girl smiles anyway and takes my hand, leading me down the hall.

"I'll be right back Tosh." She calls to her brother. He only grunts and shifts to watch us. Far too soon we're at a door at the very end of the hall, the numbers I was hunting for right in my face in faded artificial gold. The girl tries the door first. Locked. I'm about to send her off back to her brother and knock when she starts mercilessly banging on the door.

"HEY DES! WAKE UP! "She continues the banging even as shouts of anger come from doors all through the hall. I even here a faint 'shut up!' I urgently grab her shoulder as an ask of silence. She ignores me. "C'MON DES, I KNOW YOU'RE HOME." Is she mental? This man is labeled absolutely crazy and she's banging on his door as if it called her a name! Not mention shrieking through the door.

"Sweetie I don't think you should be doing-"I don't finish my sentence. A voice, groggy and just as angry as the others responds to the beat down of the wood.

"JESUS CHRIST, ALRIGHT!" Heavy footsteps come close, the sound of a latch being released right after. The door creaks open and I let my hand drop of the girls shoulder. Well, not at all what I expected.

"Lori, I'm tired as hell what is so important that you have to assault my fuck-who's that guy?" The man that answered the door was not at all what my mind had conjured up. He was no hulking, bald headed mass of muscle with beady eyes and unsightly tattoos marred by scars-no, he was rather young looking, fit but not massive, shockingly soft brown eyes and one pale scar slashing vertically up his lips, two dog tags resting on his chest while a simple chain holds them. He holds zero features of a person needing help. Lori perks at his presence, ushering her hand towards my off guard form.

"This guy was looking for you, so I helped him!" The brown eyes lock on me, then I see it, small but noticeable. Something disconnected, frightening in his eyes that held the definition of insane. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes held everything. Brows clench together, scarred mouth lifts into a sneer and one hand gently rests on Lori's face. She giggles and grabs his wrist. I see the tone difference; tan against the soft peach of children's skin. Though he's picking on Lori, his eyes stay on me and I suddenly feel very naked in my two shirts and slacks.

"Nice, squirt. Now scram, I'll see you later." Without objection, Lori scampers off to her brother, the ladder now standing up awaiting her return. Awkward silence swirls in between us, his eyes making me sweat under how inflamed they are, prepared. I clear my throat, pull out my work board.

"Um, you're Desmond Miles correct?" He moves to lean against the door frame, exposing one tattoo that curls menacingly from wrist to bicep on his left arm. I believe he notices my flickering gaze, so he uses that exact arm to hold his drink that seems to have come out of nowhere.

"Depends who's wanting him." I suck in a lungful of air and jut out the papers that hold all the official notifications that I'm his therapist, one brow raising and an unmarked hand reaching to take them. I watch him read, absorb, scoff and mutter angrily.

"You never listen do you, Jean?" Said Jean is most likely the one that called the request. "He's already paid hasn't he?" I see no point in lying to him. I feel that he already knows the answer and merely wants confirmation.

"Two thousand dollars towards my boss-Mister Warren Vidic. He assigns us." He groans, scuffing a booted foot against the carpet. Those disconnected eyes come to me, and it's like I'm being stripped again, like he's thinking of whether I'm worth any trouble or not. I've never felt open to a client before. He makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat, kicks the door back so it's wide open and motions with his glass clad hand into the room.

"Might as well come in." The invitation is full of distaste, anger. I breathe and push myself in. The place isn't at all messy; granted a few forgotten take out boxes and haphazardly strewn clothes, but it was tidy enough to be respectable and held a the scent of old spice. Strange. His back is turned to me as he stretches out, several pops and relieved groans coming from him. How old was he again? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Not nearly old enough to need my help! Yet…the history of trauma and mile long list of quit prescriptions says otherwise. A medium sized T.V shouts adds while I continue to watch him trudge around his home, ripping open something with his teeth and pouring what looks like cereal into his mouth.

"Whatever it is you're here for," He manages through a mouthful of cereal, "I'm sure as hell not going back on any meds. My last set made me taste colors." I can't tell if he's being serious, but I don't push the subject. I really don't want to. I slowly slide into the spot of my brain that knows exactly what to say.

"No. You won't be put onto any medications. You're medical records shows too many negative reactions. I'm here as support, a helping ear." Those eyes come back to me for the fourth time that day, a smirk just slightly cracking that emotionless mask. He shakes his head and turns away from me, drinking milk straight from the jug.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." Snarky remarks aside, he comes back into the living room, where I haven't moved an inch and drops down onto a couch that looks worse than the building. He lounges with a content sigh before he nods his head to the lazy chair closer by. "If we're gonna do this let's get a move on. Lori only stays away so long." I sit down, my clipboard in hand as he stretches out again.

"So how's this going down?" He mutters, taking a large gulp of his drink and setting it in his lap. I purse my lips, push up my glasses and tap my pen again the board. I feel able to focus on him now, inside his home and seeing him for myself. From years of experience I see the same thing lacking in his like many other patients. Hope. That's the word. His eyes are hopeless. Eyes that have seen too much and don't want to see any more, are done with processing, just letting it pass by. No more interest in what happens. Disconnected. Some words fit descriptions just right.

"You were in the army, am I right?" he freezes, his free hand slinking up to the dog tags to clutch at them like some sort of lifeline. Any sign of emotion drains away as he slowly turns to burn those brown eyes into me again. Oh yes, there it is, pointless anger, paranoia, and fear rolled into a sneer that broke the poker face, but did nothing for vacancy in his irises. Tendons in his hand became very defined and I feel an unhealthy amount of chills when he takes in a breath harshly.

"Yes, I was." He chokes, fingers stroking the indented text across the tags tentively.

"Would you mind telling me your experience?" That's the first time I see dread in his gaze. It's the moment I know this will be a very, _very_ long session.

**Well, certainly larger than I intended but, hey, if it fits. Give it a shot, yeah? Took me a bit to grow enough balls to do something as strange as this. Next chapter will be stranger. If you like review or give me follow. buh-bye!**


	2. In the name of sanity

**I'm too into this already. But something about this just feels good writing. Maybe cuz it's new territory. Oh well. I own nothing.**

"In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule."

― Friedrich Nietzsche

**September 15, seven years prior**

"Now be sure to eat everything they give you."

"Yes, Mom."

"And don't forget to keep your hair short."

"_Yes_, Mom."

"And-"

"Anne, that's enough. He knows." William Miles chastises his wife, setting a hand on his only son's bag clad shoulder. Brown meets brown more a millisecond, enough to say what is not voiced. Good luck. Eighteen years of age, and going into the army like an honorable American. Just like their family had for generations. There were no worries; Miles boys always came back strong and no longer boys. Men. Bill had raised his son just as his father had raised him, the trust in America and respect to the military solid and un-wavering. He patted his son's back with a good couple of thumps, his support unsaid but noticed. Though Desmond sometimes wished he'd at least give him a proper goodbye before he left.

Anne pressed her son's face between her hands and gave him one sweet motherly kiss to his scar, setting his cheeks aflame in embarrassment as they were in a very public place. How she loved the scar; something he had earned himself from help on the farm, being a 'big boy' at the time and not crying at all even when blood ran all over his chin, where a horribly sharp barn edge got him. It was an emotional moment for her, setting her forehead against her not so little boy's as a goodbye and looking into those lovely brown eyes. So intuitive, so hard to tear away from. Something he inherited from both sides of the family, two dark brown missing into a beautiful near black. She remembers when she had to pick him up to perform such an act. Where on earth did the time go?

"Take care of yourself sweetie. Write to mommy if you can." Large hands settled over her delicate ones, a gentle squeeze making it harder to let go of her little one. Can't this wait at least one more year? Can she please keep her baby another year? Going to the Army at nineteen wouldn't be awful. She doesn't care what Bill says, there's always the possibility her little Des won't comeback, only a dog tag and a letter of sympathy. It seems just like yesterday he was tripping over his own itty-bitty feet helping her do the dishes, now here he was with size nine men's sneakers and with a gate like his father's. All grown up and ready for the world. Far too soon for her liking.

"I will mom. I love you." Desmond is taller than his mother now, so wrapping her in a hug is quite easy. It's tight and quick; Anne clutching onto her son's favorite white hoodie. He used to be the one to rest his delicate head against her shoulder, now it was the other way around. How did she miss how much he grew up? Bill carefully pulls them free, rubbing his wife's shoulders as she sobs silently and watches their one and only child wave farewell, disappearing into the other recruits off to Afghanistan, into the endless hell that his war.

Anne covers her mouth as more tears flow. Bill continues to rub her shoulders. Now they can only pray their son will return to them safe and sound. But that might be asking too much.

XxX

The plane ride is anything but pleasant, silence only broken by the occasional high altitude cough or the hum of the engine. That leaves an unbearable amount of time to think of your choices and how you've gotten where you are. Desmond is one of the many fresh recruits needed in the war of Afghanistan, all no older than twenty, trained and ready to fight. It's not a good feeling, knowing that when the plane lands you're stepping into a war zone. People are killed in every direction and in every way. It's disturbing and depressing to think of all the lives already gone because of this war. Desmond studies the male next to him, an arrogant grin on his face and an expression that as not fitting for where they were going at all. Desmond turns away, slight disgust at the eagerness. He looks at his hands, entwined by the fingers and already missing the loving touch of his mother, the roughness of the trees under his palms while helping his father in the field. Or maybe the soft fur of his dog, buster back home, whom always proudly trotted by his side and snuggled into his back on cool nights.

Damn. Homesick already. He bites his lip and untangles his fingers in an attempt to distract himself. Too much time in the country for someone his age; eighteen and had never seen a building higher than a silo. And the small cities his father went to for supplies never had anything higher either. About the time he was fourteen the trips were no longer exciting. Instead he started staying home to keep up the work while his father left for groceries or whatever else they needed.

He bet if he said that now, half if not more of the passengers would grate him and taunt him with his lack of city life knowledge. He doesn't feel like breaking the silence; he senses it's the last bit he'll get for quite some time. For some reason it seems very precious at the time. When he gets there, the men in charge will shove a pre-sized uniform into his arms along with two dog tags that held his name, blood type, and hometown. He'll be led into the on field barber, where the razor eager man will roll his eyes at his curly but short hair and shove him along. Just like at camp. Except he can't call his mother griping he'd rather shuck corn back home this time.

He'll find his bunk where he'll put the few belongings he brought along, then off to the mess hall to earn a lecture on how war wasn't a game, that it was serious business and then be dismissed to eat.

Then he'll be assigned a position and a partner. After that, it begins…doesn't it?

He jumps out of his thoughts and skin when a loud **da-koom **erupts mere hundreds of feet away from the plane, making the winged machine give menacing shudder. He isn't the only one, a rather scrawny lad dropping to the floor of the plane with a yelp. Some even began to tremble. No one is in a position to insult or laugh, as all of the passengers had expressed their surprise some way or another. The voice of the pilot crackles out of the speakers of the plane.

"Area forty-five, war zone number three. Welcome home, boys" It's not comforting in the slightest. Just as he uttered those words, Desmond felt the pit of his stomach rise at the steady change in altitude. Or maybe it was sudden dread and regret of his choice. He wouldn't ever know as the plane descended and landed with precision, slight bumps from small hills or large rocks. His acute ears perked at the sound of shuffling before the latch of the place door and the blinding flash of sunlight. He squinted and coated the source of light with his palm, three figures standing at the exit. As the figures stepped into the cot, they shielded the light source and exposed two highly decorated men-most likely lieutenants or generals- and one less superior male.

The man in front, was marred and toyed with from scars and aged, his face scrunched up in a face forever stuck in bitter distaste, but his eyes-faded green held tired wisdom that was wanted to be spread between the fresh new minds. The younger was in better shape, but stood straighter as if he was still young and needed to please his major. The lack of experience fellow in the back was massive, an average crew cut gracing a massive, tick head as he muttered angrily towards a clipboard covering his nose. The two larger ones scrunched their brows as they scanned over every passenger's face.

To Desmond, it felt like the older one spent an extra few seconds locking into his eyes that his mother always complimented, cold, faded green meeting burning yet soft brown. He felt prickles upon his skin and was sure the hairs on his neck were rising when a flash of something crossed the aged face. Of course he'd never be able to name it as the elder began to speak, voice graveled with aged but strong nonetheless.

"Welcome, gentlemen. As I'm sure the pilot told you, this is area forty five. And it will be your home for the next three years, longer for some of you. First line of business, you are here as soldiers, not as whatever you were or were planning to be back home. You are all now members of the military. Many of you have already had your training, but light exercises are mandatory every morning before breakfast, and at least thirty-five sit-ups or pushups before bed. There are rules applied to this place; number one, curfew is ten PM, no exceptions. Number two; food is not to leave the mess hall. Number three; I don't care what you do on your free time, but on my time you listen and obey. I don't care how strong and independent you were back home. If I say jump, you jump! Is that clear?"

"Yes sir!" It was the obvious beginning of order, as all the young men aboard the plane bellowed their response it perfect unison. General Stoff found promise with those two words.

Xx

Desmond learns that it's definitely best he keeps his mouth shut about where he comes from when a rather brash group from New Jersey gyrate another recruit for his accent. The poor guy was from Montana. But it turns out that's easier said than done when it's time for dog tag handouts.

The bald, frail man at the counter studies him over-his medical records and history with the law- and then proceeds to give him everything he needs. He gets is uniform, a subtle mixture of sand colors, his military I.D for when he needed access to a phone or his group supervisor, and of course- his dog tags. Two to be specific; one for if he died, they could send it to the general to identify his death, the next went to his family for the same reason.

"I need your name son." The horse but strong voice sent his face into one of his warming fits, due to how much it startled him.

"Y-yes of course sir, my name's Desmond…uh, Miles." The response was small and sputtered; earning him light snickers form the others behind him.

"Family members?"

"Parents. William and Anne Miles."

"Blood type is already on dog tag…age?"

"Eighteen, sir."

"Location?" Desmond hesitates, awkwardly scratching the back of his head and more of the heat on his cheeks leak.

"Erm…West Colorado, sir." The bald man doesn't miss a beat, but Desmond heard whispers behind him begin; creeping under his skin and making that damn heat creep up on him again. The man hands him his dog tags, curtly shooing him off towards the barber, who does exactly as predicted. He rolls his eyes, gives him a light trim, and then shoves him off. Strangely he isn't sent to the mess hall, rather is given directions to his tent, the man saying no mess hall until meal time. He shrugs it off, finding tent twenty-one and setting his backpack on the bottom bunk. He knew if he took the top, a fight would ensue and he wasn't in the mood for such pointless things.

Later it turned out that was the right choice. A rather loud and boisterous young man claimed the top bunk, calling him 'Dessie' and 'Country boy' and many other things that irked Desmond's hard to reach anger. He would not punch the boy he discovered later was called 'Kadar' from Miami, because he was not worth the stress to his knuckles. A tree was worth more time than the walking migraine. He didn't listen to the random outbursts and complaints all afternoon, in no mood to deal with 'city boys.' He just wanted to lie on his hard spring bed, and stew in his depression for the moment.

God he hoped his mother was okay. He could just imagine her in the kitchen now, peeling potatoes and missing the way he filled the silence, or how he hummed with her like he was five again, helping her cook when he wasn't working with his father. But at the moment, she'd be sluggishly boiling corn, throwing glances at the door like he would suddenly appear with his father, Buster yapping and wagging his tail behind him. Did she fill pain for his choice? Anxiety that he wouldn't come back? Of course- she was his mother, protecting him from things that were even harmless.

What about his father? How was he feeling? Proud, he was sure first off…but was he worried? Was he actually nervous that his one and only son wouldn't come back, only his dog tag and letter of consolation? His father wouldn't show it if he was. For the sake of his mother. She had always been frail about his well-being, always wondering if the tiny baby she had given birth to was able to reach up to his father's beliefs. He in fact remembered once, his mother nearly having a seizure when he and his father came home bruised and battered when he was ten, the day being hot and harsh.

His mother had gasped in horror, looking him over and noticing the fresh wound slashing vertically up his lips. She had proceeded to scold them both, scold her father for not watching him, and him for pushing his limits. By the end of the day, cold lemonade was her way of saying all was forgiven, He already missed the serene silence that was the farm, maybe a bit too much. Oh well, far too late to change his mind. The shouts and laughter of the other men was agitating, but it also reminded him he wasn't alone in this. He was sure even the toughest looking, hot headed recruit was thinking of someone or something back home they missed. Or maybe being in the country with only his family and dog had softened him.

He once again didn't have time to discover as a shrill whistle calls them to the mess hall.

The mess hall was somewhat of a relief, in a twisted way. It was stuffy, and by the time everyone was inside it was loud. But Desmond discovers he rather enjoys the sarcasm of the cook; Mario. The man himself, is just as loud as the hall, but holds such a sense of humor and 'no shit attitude' it brought a smile to the young man's face for the first time all day.

"Hope you like meatloaf boys. And fireballs!" The belly laugh leaves Desmond shaking his head, peering down at the meat and potatoes on his plate, imagining his mother clicking her tongue at the lack of greens. He's sitting alone, ignoring the hoots and bellows from all around and just eating the meatloaf most likely stuffed with ten jalapenos. He doesn't look up when he feels a new presence across from him.

"You're from Colorado?" It was the mousy voice of the guy that was picked on for his accent, the southern twang hesitant and soft. The voice of someone just realizing what they got into.

"…Yeah." More silence.

"My name's Jonas. And you're…Desmond, right?" This time, Desmond did look up, ignoring the numbness of his entire mouth, his buttered potatoes doing nothing to squelch the heat of his meat. He chews considerably, noticing how uncomfortable Jonas was sitting there-feeling like he was being judged again.

"Yeah." He states, dropping his fork to stretch his hand across the table. "But call me Des." Something changes in Jonas's eyes. Something strong enough to pull a tiny smile onto his lips and carefully grip Desmond's hand in a curt shake that felt familiar and bizarre at the same time.

"Alright. Call me Jo, then."

Desmond lets a grin cross his scarred lips as they simultaneously release to return to their impossibly spicy food. The silence that follows is a promise to something good. At least for a little while, the entire camp hopes.

**WELP. Chapter two…I don't think this is a good description of a first day in the military. But it'll get better over time. Quick question, who wants to see Shaun and present Desmond in the next chapter, and who wants to see more past Des? Gimme answers!**


	3. realityvsfantasy

**CHAPTER THREE! Hot and ready for reading. I hope everyone's enjoying this. I own nothing**

"One person's craziness is another person's reality." ― Tim Burton

I learned later that day Desmond was very accurate about Lori not staying away long; she popped into his apartment about thirty minutes through his explanation, carrying a plastic wrapped plate. Desmond's face went blank, the young male muttering a 'want do you want.' in Lori's direction.

"Hey Des, mom made that beef stew you really liked for lunch." She handed him the plate, smiling at his risen eyebrows. The girl had some sort of strange friendship with him. Or maybe a childish crush. It wasn't my business.

"Tell Sherry I say thanks. Now shoo and don't come back every half hour." Lori left, throwing a glance at me over her shoulder before she shut the door behind her. There was silence; his eyes flicked back to neutral as if he hadn't been trembling in front of me just a moment ago. This guy had a grip on his control. Much stronger than any other patient I'd ever dealt with. I cleared my throat as he removed the wrapping from the still steaming plate.

Those eyes snap onto me, and I feel my jaw click shut. He raises the plate, moving closer to me.

"Wants some?" This man is officially the most complicated patient I'll ever deal with.

"Uhhh…no, thank you. I'd like it if we got back on subject." He pauses mid bite, pursing his lips and lowering the spoonful of meat and potatoes. There's rigidness in his shoulders, hands tangled together in an anxious act as the silence stretches on, the noises that had had me scurrying into the apartment now a relief. We both watch the steam float of the plate Lori brought in, me waiting for either a vocal refusal, or a continuation of what he started. "Is this…Jonas you mentioned, is he…"I hesitated, suddenly enwrapped in the smooth rhythm of the evaporation coming off his lunch. "Alive?" It was a rather stupid question, and wasn't how I regularly handled patients. But this visit has already ridden of the rocker so what the hell, let's improvise some more.

I catch him straightening in the corner of my eye, but I ignore it and force my focus onto my notebook. Barely touched. I haven't written a single input note.

"Yeah…" he breathes, a barely noticeable shudder passing through his body. He peers up, the twisted, burning hopelessness back. "I made sure of it." I had no idea what he meant.

Xx

**September 16, Seven years prior**

Desmond wishes he hadn't lied so long in bed wide awake. He wishes he hadn't stared at the tip of the tent like it would give him all his answers, and he wishes he hadn't slipped the picture of his parents he had decided would be best to take with him out, gazing at it and letting a sad, choked noise come out of his throat. But he did, and he passed out with the picture under his pillow as well. A high blaring horn jolted him awake, tearing him away from the bare hours of sleep he had gotten. From as far as he could tell with a bleary mind, it's still dark out, the sun barely starting to touch the horizon when a booming voice very nearly roars at him to get his 'pansy ass' up. He does as he's told, clumsily pulling his pants up and quickly but neatly buttoning his new shirt, leaving his wife beater on underneath.

He shoves his boots on with little hops as he follows his tent mates outside into the cool early morning air, the gentle touch of the breeze refreshing. His assumptions were right; the sun wasn't even racing the sky by a fraction, the desert's temperature low until its arrival.

"Single file!" Without a word, the men from tent twenty-one obeyed the voice, some groggily trudging into position, but making it without complaint. "Shoulders straight." Again, obedience. Desmond risks a peak around, seeing heads bob and some others even full out snoring on their feet. From the position of the sun, it could possibly be five or four in the morning; somewhat average for him. Early mornings on the farm had been imprinted into his body from age five to now. Boots crunch against the gravel of the deserts floor, Desmond feeling eyes boring into his skull, his gaze not wavering away from the rising horizon. Murmurs reach his ears, and then the booming voice is there once again.

"Gentlemen. Today is the beginning of your military career. We have woken you in the early hours to begin your assessments. This is to see which caravan you belong to. Who your supervisor will be and so on. Do not think you're being singled out, either. All tent marshals were called to perform the assessments today as well. In a moment we will begin, then each one of you finished will be sent to wash up, then to the mess hall. There we will tell you you're positions and supervisors. First up,"

The general skimmed over his clipboard. "Felix, Aurora." It went on like this all through sunrise, burning into late morning as names are clocked off, people coming back breathless or angry and muttering obscenities as they stomped off to the latrines. Desmond's name is called. He steps up and nods. The men nod back, and it begins. He wouldn't be able to tell you what exactly they were testing when he sprints through an obstacle course, breezing over the walls and across the tires. They also test his firing. He hit the target, but didn't make a bull's eye. They test his reaction time, making him tuck and roll from one place to another. It was worse than days at farm. His body feels like jelly, and his throat burns with each breath he takes. This had been much more strenuous than climbing the barn. The men at the end of the course give satisfied nods, waving him off to the showers and ignore his wheezing breaths.

It takes a lot of will to keep himself on two feet, closing his eyes against the now blaring sun in an attempt to stop the throbbing in his head. The water in the latrine helps-not too hot and not too cold, but Desmond has to slink out soaking wet and dressed when a group of other recruits start a towel whipping fight. That is something he'd rather not get involved in. The mess hall was a relief; it seemed most men decided to spend the bit of free time they had somewhere else. So only a few people from different tents were eating breakfast. Including Jonas. Desmond took whatever the hell was the mysterious substance on his tray and moved to sit next to a slumped Jonas. "Take your turn already?"

Green eyes looked back at him. His voice is muffled as the scrawny male answers him.  
"Mph…I can't feel my legs." Desmond passes a small smile, prodding at what he guessed were eggs. The two sat in silence, both too tired to make small talk. Well until Jonas managed to prop his head up.

"So what made you join the army?" He asked, not interested in the mush on his plate. Desmond hesitated mid drop of hot sauce.

"It's sort of a medal of honor in my family. If you go and build a career, good for you. If you go fight for this country, consider yourself one of the men." Desmond realized what he said was true. Military life was nearly a legacy in the miles bloodline. IT had started with his great grandfather, or maybe farther, but all he knew was that is became something almost required to do if wanted to always be considered part of the family. "What about you?" Conversation was a relief Desmond didn't know he needed in such a place. But Jonas was good company, more relatable from his time in the country as well. Jonas prodded at his eggs, poking his tongue into his cheek.

"My father signed me up. Said it'd shape me better than the farm." The smaller answered, pushing away his food. Desmond pursed his lips and looked towards the entrance of the mess hall for a moment.

"He must've thought you had some potential on something." Desmond mutters, not at all thinking as he spoke the words. Jonas's nervous laugh catches his attentions. The other is now peering down to the table, hand rubbing his neck.

"I'm kind of handy with a gun. But the only fire arm I seriously can use is a shot-gun." Desmond shrugs, finding some humor in their conversation.

"Better than me. I only shot a bi-bi gun when I was little. My family had tons of apple trees so I learned how to climb more than anything." Jonas grins at the statement, subject flowing easily after that. Breakfast was forgotten as the two proceeded to stroll about the camp they would call home for however long they assigned, the sun still beating on their heavy but cooling clothes and whistles coming from every direction. Desmond learns very much about Jonas; he had an older brother named Kiser, who was in his thirties and had a family of his own, he learned that he was born in Connecticut but grew up Montana, and many other details of his acquaintances life back home. He hopes Jonas learned just as much about him.

But good things always end, a group of older city dwellers noticing their enjoyment of each other's company. "Aww look boys, the hicks've bonded." Jonas shies away from the treatment, muttering his disliking under his breath. But Desmond stares, soft brown hardening to black. One sobers at the expression, the others following and studying the 'hick.' Something changes in the air as Desmond continues the not quite glare. No words were needed to let the olders know that Jonas was off limits. As was Desmond.

When the trio avoids eye contact, Desmond smoothly moves his gaze back to Jonas, who awkwardly smiles at his new companion. The larger recruit obviously grew a back bone at home, for reasons he didn't want to know. A voice screeched through the worn overhead speakers of the complex.

"_**New recruits please report to mess hall for position briefing." **_Desmond tromps a few steps, giving the speaker a look it would not know and walked away with Jonas back the way they came.

Xx

"Good to see you all gentlemen. As you know you're morning surprise was a way for us to know where exactly you belonged here. Now we will do this by position order and alpebetical. First up, Ariel team…"

"So where do think you ended up?" Jonas murmured, leaning back on the mess hall tables with Desmond, the two having been the last ones to enter the hall. They hadn't missed anything important like Jonas had feared. Desmond prods his cheek with his tongue, thinking of the assets he used on the farm.

"Probably the messenger boy or something." He jokes, nudging Jonas with his elbow, making the thinner man snicker. It continued on, the two acquaintances never called for the Ariel team, or the sniper patrol, nor the safe zone protection. They just sat there as names were ticked off, many city dwellers giving the pair smug sneers. Expression that earned them a very subtle finger flip from Desmond. Don't let his attitude fool you; though he was kind and a 'nice boy' according to his neighbor didn't mean he hadn't dealt with a few assholes in his time. The farm wasn't always serene. The boys are prepared to get up and leave when they hear one last position team be called.

"Ground control. Calhoun, Miles, Parker." Desmond turns his head with a frown. Ground control? What did that mean? "You're supervisor will be Major Kaczmarek. Good luck boys." Desmond and Jonas turned their heads to show one another's amazed expressions. They made a squad? The blonde male who was apparently Major Kaczmarek patiently stood with the other-Parker- recruit by his side. Unlike many of the superiors, his hair was gelled back instead of shaved to the scalp, arms crossed and legs cocked in a casual position with his military jacket lazily buttoned. Something that not many military personnel could get away with on any occasion. Desmond raised his eyebrows once more before strolling over by his supervisors' side, Jonas following suit. The war veteran saluted them, a flash of amusement coming across his ocean eyes when the three quickly and awkwardly repeated the motion.

"Welcome to Ground Control, boys. Call me Clay." Desmond feels the smallest sliver of excitement reach his mind. Now if only he knew what exactly ground control was.

**Heheeeeeeh, THIS IS SO LATE I'M SO SORRY DON'T IMPALE ME I SWEAR I'LL START PICKING UP ;A;. in other news, wooo I finally got clay in! now I'll be on a roll I promise. Thanks for your patience. Hope this wasn't too short.**


	4. mind, where art thou?

**Gonna try and update more often. Sorry guys I got sucked into tumblr for a while and couldn't come out. Oh well, here's the next chapter. Hope you like **

"**I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity." ― Edgar Allan Poe**

"So how is he doing?" I look up from my paperwork to see Lucy standing in my doorway, hands on hips. Ah, right; it was Monday. Weekend long gone as was my normal schedule, back in the office sifting through paperwork for other patients, but one particularly on my mind.

Desmond. It had been three weeks since I met him, and to say he wasn't what I expected would be an understatement. The man was indeed unstable, but he had such a hold on his reactions it was difficult to tell. He was a damn hard shell, only giving me short and simple answers to all my questions. He made it obvious he didn't want me around with the tone of his voice and his constant getting up and not coming back for quite some time. I tried not to push, tried to accept his curt answers, but sometimes it was challenging to swallow his nonchalant, 'I don't care' attitude to the things I asked. He didn't show many expressions when I came over, the same uncracked poker face upon him each day I visit. He was exhausting, but far too fascinating. The man was only in his twenties and had such control over himself it was baffling.

"You do realize I have about five male patients. You have to be more specific, love." I set my attention back on the paperwork, looking over a patient named Maria's files. A ignore the tap of her heels until she slaps the papers out of my hands. "What the bloody hell, Lucy!" I glare. It's the only thing I can do when I see that look in her eyes. The look that means a good long ranting.

"I'm talking about the one patient that you didn't want and now has your full attention." I catch the clip in her voice. This is where the 'enemy' part of our relationship surfaces. It's friendly competition until I or she dig into one another's lives too much. Mostly work.

"Sod off, I take interest in all my patients!" I snap back, twirling my chair so my back is to her. I could still feel her there, either fuming or waiting for me to give in and turn. I'm tempted to-just to get the whole thing done with and be able to work in peace. But my peace was never truly a concern to Lucy; neither was my well-being at moments like this. Lucy sighs, the thump of her heels on the carpet shrinking away as she does as well. I sigh. Now my attention is torn from the papers I desperately need to do. I slap them down on my desk right next to my mug, turning back to overlook the view.

Perhaps Lucy was right; Desmond had been consuming my mind. Admittedly I acted this way in the beginning with every patient I had. Because they were new, needed reassurance that I was indeed there for a reason. But with Desmond, he wasn't interested in my reassurance. He wasn't even happy with my presence. He didn't seek my help or any assistance. He thought too highly of himself to search for help with something he appeared to have control over. Yet the endless list of episodes and failed medications made me think otherwise.

So yes, maybe I had immersed myself a little too much in someone who would rather be left alone than have me in his home-or set foot in my office. I still remember that conversation.

_I shoo Lori away, the young one following me through the hall. She was ruthless when it came to Desmond. The moment you mention him she's all bright eyed and eager. Definitely a crush. I hear harsh music from the other side of the door. I knock. No answer. I hesitantly rap my fist against the door much like Lori. Still no sharp 'what do you want' or 'piss off I'm busy.' I may not know that much about Desmond on a personal level, but I can put together he doesn't do warm welcomes. Out of better judgment I turn the knob. Unlocked. Again I ignore my better mind and crack the door open, the music thrumming through my skull, and the words are anything but bubbly. _

"_Miles." I call. He refused me of referring to him as Desmond. I wasn't going formal. Acknowledging him like a sports player was the last option I had. The music muffles my voice and I force myself to step into the apartment. Bloody hell, this is awkward when you're not allowed into someone's living space. It feels almost like breaking and entering. I see the half full glass on the table. Alright, the man's awake. I walk over to it, picking it up to sniff it. The scent of alcohol bites through the sweetness of the soda pop, making me cringe. I set it down. _

"_Not a fan of booze?" I feel as if I jump out of my skin, whipping around to see the Miles himself, twirling that dog tag necklace of his. He's comfortable with it, but cautious. _

"_No, not exactly." I answer, rubbing my hands on the side of my thighs. There he goes again with that vacant stare; he stops spinning the chain and gently places it back around his neck, the tags resting at the tip of his collarbone. _

"_Haven't heard of knocking?" He quips, sauntering past me to take a healthy sip of his beverage. I fluster, jerking my arms before turning around._

"_I bloody well did, but there wasn't an answer!" I hardly talk to patients this way, but what little time I've known Desmond has opened a less professional side of me. I see just the corner of his mouth twitch. He's fighting a smirk again. The one I saw the first day was the last._

"_So you just waltz in? Not good when you think about it. For all you know I could've been butt ass-"_

"_D'okay, let's change the subject. Or the very least reverse a tad." I rush over my words to stop his sentence. This man didn't have a good filter on his mouth. "Dare I ask where you were in the first place?" He cocks his hip, finishing off that mixed drink of his before answering me with a smack of his lips. _

"_Shower." I don't prod, because that will lead back to me walking in on my patient naked. Not a pleasant road for my line of career. A thought comes to mind. _

"_If you're not fond of me in your home, we can arrange office meetings." The moment the words leave, I have a feeling I've made an awful mistake. Desmond jiggles the glass, making the half thawed ice inside clink against it. He's relaxed as far as I can tell, but he can deceive. _

"_Not happening. I'd rather risk you walking in with just my boxers than be stuck in an office everybody thinkin I'm a psychopath." He clips my shoulder with his, not saying another word. I realize it's the fullest conversation we've had so far._

I'm out of my office, leaning on the counter in the staff lounge waiting for the coffee maker to beep. The weight of the conversation hits me. 'Thinking he's a psychopath.' Was he in in denial? Was actually desperate to convince himself he was perfectly fine instead ofmentally unstable? No. The endless amount of laziness does not come from someone fighting off uncertainty of their mental wellness. He accepted it, at a level somewhere. He lived with it, maybe used it to detach everyone around him. Records said no contact with parents after one day back home. The coffee maker beeps, but it's a distant sound in my ears.

Every document filed under his name says one thing over and over; not relevantly, through close to something like a different series of words. Desmond was almost emotionless. A smirk means nothing; broken people smile, angry hearts laugh. A smirk is pointless on a man that acts as though he doesn't feel a thing. He had seen hell. I don't need him to tell me to know. You can see it in the pale scars that skitter across his arms, wrist to shoulder, the tired creases in face that have nothing to do with lack of sleep, and most definitely the way he carries himself. He limps. Not enough to be noticeable in public, but enough for an overly observant therapist to notice.

He doesn't display any of this when he thinks my eyes aren't on him. It's as if the moment he's out of sight, he ever so slightly lets the obvious walls around him down. Only a fraction of the wall; room for a gulp of sorrow or a punch to the wall. Small flickers of weakness that keep him from crumbling in on himself.

Or am I just being too cliché and poetic?

Yes, most likely. Here I am only three weeks in with the young man and I think I have his bloody philosophy cleared up. I rub my temple. The coffee maker beeps irritably as if to say 'you wanted coffee now come get it.' I obey and pour myself a cup, cream and sugar going in afterwards to fight the bitterness. The heat bites at my tongue and clears my muddling thoughts-well just a bit. A resolution comes to mind that doesn't want to be pushed back, no matter how hard I mutter to myself "You're a twit." My mind sets itself on a mission.

I need to get Desmond Miles to open up. If not for his health, then for my own selfish curiosity.

**September 30****th****, seven years prior**

Desmond curses as he merely nicks the target once again, robotically cocking the assault rifle in his hands before raising it again. _CRACK, CRACK_. Miss. Curse. Cock again. Repeat. That's how Jonas and Major Kaczmarek find him, turning away from the mocking target as the mindless cycle makes him lose his patience. But even so he cocks, the empty case flinging near the pile of the others as he ready's for a another shot. His warming teammates watch, Jonas baring teeth in sympathy when he shoots too low down. Clay stands there for a moment, watching the recruit voice his frustration quite freely. His vocabulary is anything but gentle country.

He pushes his tongue against his cheek in thought, moving up to stand next to the younger recruit. Even after his training his shot isn't wonderful. And Clay knows why. He sets his hand on the still hot nozzle, making the annoyed recruit lower the weapon and snap his near black eyes to the contrasting color of his superior. There's challenge in Desmond's expression, and that makes the blonde smirk.

"Recoil." The single word has Desmond blinking at a loss. Clay tips his head and has the tanned younger raise the gun again, slapping his lower back lightly. That means 'straighten up!' Desmond complies, trying to watch his leader through the corner of his eye.

"You're pulling down the gun and to the side. You're expecting the recoil when you shoot. But you gotta remember that the bullet's long gone. You've got to relax and let the gun just do its job." Jonas moves closer, watching the older readjust Desmond's posture, rearranging his arms, and then stepping back. Desmond glances at the man, a frown touching his brow. The other smirks, waving his hand towards the target. "Don't believe me? Go ahead."

Desmond does just that, hitting the targets much better than he had before. Granted he wasn't a bulls-eye, but that came with practice and time. Clay still has that smirk, hip jutted to fit his lazy position.

"Better?" Desmond looks ahead, aiming at one of the dummies farther down. CRACK, right in the heart.

"Yes, sir." He replies, toying with his guns clip as Jonas steps up to do his own practice. Clay had explained everything the best he could. Ground control was many things in one; rescue team if needed, eyes for grounded groups, and safety patrols for refugees. He also said they were supposed to get a few more additions. Three men supposedly couldn't handle themselves.

The oldest watches his only recruits at the moment take turns shooting, the smirk slowly fading off his face. These were just boys; why on earth did they recruit such young men? They should be out getting an education or at least settling down and finding a girl. The war does awful things to you, and it'll ruin the two in front of him. The thought only darkens when Desmond jokingly elbows Jonas, the two laughing a snide comment Jonas had made about Desmond's aim.

"Just boys." He mutters to himself before pulling the smirk back up, coming in between the lightly scuffling army members. He places a hand on each of their shoulders. "Here's the deal boys, you know I want you to call me Clay, right?" The duo nods. "But when we're on patrol keep it at major. The less personal it is on the field the safer." He slaps their backs before unsheathing his military knife out of his boot. "So get used to calling each other by code names. But for now, close combat needs to be touched up."

Xx

"He's kind of a cool guy. For- Y'know- a major." Desmond chuckles as he and Jonas walk back from the mess hall, bodies loose and sore from time with Clay. Desmond lazily buried his hands in his pockets, the weight of the new knife in his boot making him slightly uneasy. He had to make a habit of having it there.

"You're not always going to have gun." Clay had said, showing the simplest but quickest ways to manipulate with the weapon. Jonas had his as well, the two having sat alone once again at dinner.

"So next week we're getting more team members; y'think we need them?" Desmond shrugs, not quite up for such a discussion. It was past curfew. He was surprised no supervisors have caught them still out and about. Extra hands were always a good thing in such a place as war. Clay was teaching them well, but there was only so much three average size men could do.

"Probably. More for connection than anything. We'll be split up into groups so it doesn't really matter." As he says this, he realizes it's the truth. It won't matter whether it's the just the three of them, or ten. They'll be no time to grow disliking or new companions. Clay said they'd be out in the field way too soon for that. Jonas looks ahead at the comment, pursing his lips and scuffing his boot against the dirt ground underneath.

"Well, s'it okay I say I hope I get into patrol with you?" Desmond stops walking, flicking his eyes towards his acquaintance. They're near black in the night.

"I hope so too." Desmond smiles, a slight stretch of his mouth that means much more than an all teeth grin. "The hicks have to stick together, right?" He nudges Jonas as they near his tent, parting ways and leaving Desmond to his thoughts. The smile leaks off his face, mind filling with possibilities of actually going out into the war, taking a life. Could he do that? Was it too late to back out? It was too late the moment he left his mother's arms back at the airport.

He sneaks into the tent, the sound of the other bunkers snoring lightly. He wasn't tired. He doubted he'd get any sleep tonight or any other. Peaceful sleep wasn't going to happen for a while. He shucks off his boots, the knife going deep without the pressure of his foot to keep it place. He didn't feel like stripping to his boxers; instead Desmond shrugs off his jacket and lies back against the hard springy bed. He stares at the bottom of the top bunk, hands coming to rest underneath his head. His eyes feel heavy, but refuse to close.

So he breathes a deep sigh, getting his body to sink as far as it could into the bed. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least relax.

It'd be a long time before he could again.

**Ah, well, that came out pretty decent I think. Getting close to the good parts of the story. I wanted to focus on Shaun a bit more to show his interest in Desmond's mental capacity, and I hope I got that. Review, if you please! **


	5. Less craziness in the heart

**Oh hello, look it hasn't been nearly two months since I've touched this story! Anyway, got a little surprise for you in here. I'm sure you'll catch on as you read. I always seem to have real sharp readers ;) I own nothing.**

**November 15****th****, seven years prior.**

Boots crunch against the hard gravel underneath, the crackle of fire bringing on the weight of what just commenced, bodies strewn across the floor-some identifiable, others too mangled to once be a person. The smell is horribly unpleasant in the cooling evening air, weak hearts not welcomed. Desmond cringes at all of it, hands cradling the assault rifle in his grip as he treads through the destroyed village. Jonas is ahead of him crouching down to inspect each body, heavy gloved hands hovering over the ruined humans. He doesn't touch for many reasons, and that just makes the situation all the more grim.

Very few identities have been found. Clay is farther behind, checking any standing buildings for rogues or survivors. Good god this wasn't how he was expecting his day to go. Granted he'd seen more carnage the past week than his now two months among the military. The gun fights became almost routine, as did the constant stream of injuries in the camp what little time they spent there. So his days were anything but lounging around playing cards like in the oldie movies he used to watch. Still, a charred village in need of refuge wasn't on the list of desired assignments. The static of his radio snaps Desmond out of his stupor, hand moving to his thigh.

"Team A this is angry bird, status on area twelve." A voice fights through the whooping of helicopter blades. Jonas continues on, a short jerk of his hand that means, 'keep moving.' Body language was everything when you were on the ground. Desmond gave Clay a short whistle to indicate they were moving on.

"Angry bird this is scar. Area twelve is in critical condition; heavy casualties and so far no sign of survivors or rogues." Clay speeds up to walk next to him, face impassive as always during their patrols. But this wasn't a patrol; it was inspection and clean-up of a neutral area caught in the cross fire.

"Update accepted. Team?"

"All accounted for, sir. Sixteen, Zip, and myself."

"Accepted. Continue on." Desmond nodded, ending the conversation and setting his radio back into its slot. Clay stepped alongside of him, the two keeping eye on Jonas as he continued ahead. Back hunched steps slow and ready for anything. It was still strange to see shy, smiling Jonas in such a stance; to see him ready to fight when back at the camp the smaller was content staying out of the way. He stopped his thoughts when Jonas halted in front of them, hand flicking up in a stop motion. Desmond threw a glance towards Clay and followed his superiors' motion of readying his rifle.

Breaths are held as Jonas stood perfectly still, the sheer silence suffocating all for the dying fires popping to their death. Then Desmond hears it; soft, muffled steps coming from the rubble of the area they had to cross through. Jonas' hand lowers slowly as he kneels down farther. He barely moves his head as his forest green eyes rest on Desmonds' sharp dark brown. Clay is stiff, almost motionless next to him all except the silent movement of their legs. Breath is short, hands are holding weapons so tight they might bend the material.

Jonas is still crouched when the duo reach him, one hand holding his binoculars to his eyes. At first things seem peaceful-a false alarm. Clay is loosening, lowering his guard-Desmond moves closer to his friend, studying the fellow southerner as he too relaxes. Jonas stands, pocketing his binoculars. He begins to move forward with a more convinced step.

"Clear." He calls, moving to a barely standing home to move forward through area twelve. Desmond encourages Clay for them to speed up, thoughts evident of no survivors anywhere. So they do, steps relaxed as if they were on patrol. There was still far too much to do, but it'd be better once they were out opponent territory.

But something flashes in the corner of Desmonds' eye. Something large enough to make him stop Clay with a deliberate lift of his hand, the olders' icy eyes flitting to Jonas who was oblivious to his partners halt. "Mi-Scar…what is it?" The question was low, the blondes' tenor voice dropping an octave as he tried to coax the tanned man to move on.

A crack and crumble of debris had Desmonds' head snapping up faster than a gunshot, brain only processing the figure charging at Jonas for a millisecond. Legs rocketed off the ground, Clay's curse falling on deaf ears. Adrenaline pumps through Desmond harder than his first patrol, eyes fixed on the man closing in on Jonas, a long sharp knife raised above his head.

"JO, TO YOUR RIGHT."

'_**BANG' **_

Brown eyes flip open with a harsh gasp, sweat drenched body vaulting out of the lying position in heavy breaths and aching head. The smell of burning wood and flesh vanishes from the air, the weight of a rifle leaves hands lost and scrambling up to a scarred bronze chest, single hand enveloping the cool metal tags around a damp neck. The touch reminds the mind where it is, heart rate lowering with no more sense of danger. Just a dream. Always just a dream. Desmond inhales deeply as he wipes his forehead with a disgusted swipe. He drops himself back into the sheets of his bed, hands rubbing away the images as a low groan comes from his throat.

"Eleven." He mutters before turning over to shove his face into his pillow, hopeful for at least another hour of sleep. But sadly his body doesn't want to succumb to sleep again, mind alert and bladder full.

"Fuck."

The smell of coffee does nothing to lighten his mood as Desmond lazily munches on cold supreme pizza, still bare-chest and in jeans from the other day. His eyes were heavy-come to think of it his entire body was. Sleep just wasn't something he could have the pleasure of meeting often. When he did, it wasn't a pleasant meeting. Sleep came when his body gave up after three to four nights of short naps-or with enough caffeine no sleep at all- and just had him pass out wherever he stand.

It wasn't the best solution, but what could he do?

He sniffs and reaches into his cabinet for a mug, shouldering it shut so he doesn't have to let go of his 'breakfast.' He couldn't help but think of how horrified his mother would be; her upturned nose scrunching in distaste towards the lack of vitamins in her sons' diet. She would playfully smack the pizza out of his hands and proceed to construct her style of a good breakfast while scolding her child about his lack of groceries. He frowns, shaking his head. He pours the steaming coffee, taking it black. What? No sugar and cream on a military base. Habits die hard. A lot do.

"Tosh says that British guy can't take a bamf like you. What does that mean? Are you guys fighting?" Lori sits next to Desmond as he surfs channels, the little girl waiting patiently for her 'bestest friend' to answer her series of questions.

And he does, after settling on an agonizingly fake soap opera and popping a peanut butter cookie in his mouth. Lori always made sure Desmond got the best batch of cookies when she baked. It was sweet; something Desmond wished Lori wouldn't aim at him.

"Bamf means somethin you're too young for. You're moms already on my case for tellin you what mofo meant." 'On his case' wasn't nearly severe enough. More like the woman threatened to castrate him if he taught her daughter anymore 'harmful words.' Though she seemed oblivious to her potty mouth son who had a love/hate opinion about the veteran. Lori cocked her head to the side, making her bangs swish into her eyes. She readjusts it before awkwardly moving to her knees on the abused couch.

"What about that British man with the glasses? Is he a new friend? I mean he comes over all the time." Desmond rolled his head with a sigh.

"No, he's not a friend." Lori frowned in confusion. Desmond didn't like people he didn't know coming into his apartment. She and a man she never met were the only ones allowed.

"…Then why is he coming over here?" She watches the man rub his temple, his other hand holding the short glass full of 'something a little shit like her couldn't have.' Considering that was just another definition of what her mother says-except more amusing-it was alcohol.

"Don't you have school?"

"Yeah."

"Then why aren't you there?"

"Cause Tosh is being an ass again. Can you tell me why the British man comes now?"

Desmond stood up, not needing to look back to know the twelve year old girl would follow him into the kitchen. Of course her brother ditched school. That stiffs Lori out of an escort _again_, since their mother doesn't exactly work a nine to five job.

"He's trying to help me with some problems, squirt. Grown up problems." Lori opens the refrigerator door as if she lived with the brown eyed man, reaching for a soda. Desmond chucks a zebra cake over his shoulder for her. He spoiled her sometimes; but unlike many kids, she didn't abuse it.

"Do you mean you're night screaming?" Lori lowers her head in sheepishness when Desmond stiffens. It wasn't exactly a secret; the entire floor could hear him during the deadly silent nights. Sometimes if they were severe enough, the floors above and below could too. But it was evident Desmond wasn't proud of the awful night terrors that tore the most agonizing screams and cries out of him. Like everything else his time in the military did to him, he lived with it. Didn't mean he was used to it.

"That's one of 'em…" He retorted, the answer coming out sharp and bitter. Lori bites her lip; she knows she hit a cord as the best thing she has to a father figure rolls his shoulders. A quirk that means he's trying to keep calm. How strange she's so familiar with this unstable veteran yet doesn't know her own fathers' name. Ever since he moved in-a cranky, sluggish young man-she'd spent most of her time bothering him in fascination. He was indeed polite, but no smile to compliment his gentlemen attitude. He returned greetings with a short wave, but never made his own greetings. It seemed that if he never needed groceries again, he'd be in his apartment forever.

She once heard her mother talking about him with a friend, saying that if he wasn't so self-isolated he'd be a "panty dropper" which still makes no sense today. She guessed it was good thing considering how they had giggled afterward.

"Look-the British guys gonna be here, so I need you to scram."

"Oh…okay." She murmured, twiddling the flaps of her treat between her fingers. "Des?"

"Hm." She wrapped her thin arms around Desmond, expecting the tightening in his back. He hated hugs; Lori didn't know why.

"Are you mad at me?" She felt the rise and fall of his back as he sighed.

"No, I'm not." He stated in that irritated but reassuring voice. Such a complicated person in all senses of the word. He pulled her hands from around his waist to turn around. "Now get going. You can come back later."

Lori didn't dis-obey, clicking the door shut as she left.

"Good afternoon Miles."

"Piss off."

"You're manners should earn you a medal." I bite, not too surprised to find Desmond resting his head against the wall of his kitchen, eyes closed with that poker face upon his face. "Considering your sour attitude, I suspect something didn't go well today." I slapped my notebook down on the neglected coffee table, removing my jacket.

"Same as every day. Two hours of sleep and a visit from the little shit." I didn't need to question to know who that was. I pursed my lips before studying Desmond once again. He did indeed look tired; the neutral expression did nothing for the bags under his eyes. How did he run without a healthy amount of sleep? I shrug and place myself in the recliner chair, momentarily meeting my patients' eyes as a way to coax him over. He complies, gaze hooded as he practically throws himself into the couch. I rest my elbows on my knees to lean closer.

"You've made an interesting stream of progress these past few weeks…" I start, hoping for a sign besides the bored lift of his eyes. I had realized something my last visit; Desmond's eyes were probably the most frightening part of him. Never mind army trained skills or battle scars, his eyes were so dark and full of the insanity perfectly bottled that it was hard to keep looking in them. They _burned_; as if everything they had seen fed a fire that had ignited the moment he left home.

What made it worse was I have a feeling they were pleasant once.

I lose track of what I was saying, shaking my head to begin again. "But yet it feels like you're keeping something holed up." He straightens, one single brow lifted as worn worker boots thunk down on the thin carpet.

"Isn't it my choice what I tell you, doc?" He says the sentence in a sickly amused voice, but of course no smile. I fumble with the pen in my hand, trying to think of a response,

"O-Yes, it is, but someone with your record of trauma surely shouldn't be-"

"I'll be whatever I Godamn please." He snaps, standing to his full height. Though I hold a few inches on him in, he seems massive that moment. "You people don't seem to understand that not all guys want to be hugged and cuddled when they make it out of service. That some can handle the bull they see. I don't need it, Jo didn't Clay did…" He stops, voice trailing off and eyes draining of aggravation. I can't help but perk, watching him sit down totally silent.

"Who's Clay, Miles?" Damn; those eyes are on me, full of unrestrained panic and fury and…sadness? Is that guilt? The mask breaks, brows screwing together and lip lifting as he snarls;

"None of your damn business." I see his hand twitch. My eyes go to the dog tags around his neck, perfectly polished and clinking with his shifting. My memory takes me to all the times he touched or wrapped his hand around those tags. They almost seemed to be a support, a comfort that someone wouldn't notice. But how could…wait. His look is daring me to say the very thought that surfaced.

The tags weren't his. That's why they were such an anchor. His own tags would bring on the weight of his experience. Something happened, and he had the tags of this Clay he seemed to value. Even more than Jonas.

He's waiting for me to say something. Whether to deny the realization or to beat me senseless I don't-and may never-know. Because I don't say anything.

I lunge.

Granted I'm no martial artist, and if he hadn't been so focused on a verbal response he might have- Ha! He would have! - deflected my hands curling around his shoulders as I push him down into the soft recesses of the couch. I get a glimpse of the tags; their worn as if fingers have constantly run over them, the words fading at the edges but still readable. He manages to squirm out of my grip. I force and push to avoid him overpowering, a concerned part of my mind discovering this is the worst contact I could possibly have with my patient. We land with a hard thump on the floor, the harsh grip of his hands around my wrists, pinning them to my sides.

His eyes are wild, barely identifiable pupils constricted as if the adrenaline of war was back in his system. I don't move; I watch him calm down and the grip on my wrist loosening, but not letting go. He doesn't have his jacket on, exposing the tattoo that whips and curls carefully from his wrist all the way to his shoulder, muscle flexing in a battle to ignore his reflex to just snap my neck. Guess I proved Vidic wrong. I just hope he doesn't act on it.

"You…don't…do that." He grates; jaw clenched and tags dangling away from the warmth of his chest. I can't help but notice another tattoo on the opposite bicep. It's that assassin's symbol from that old movie with a purple heart etched behind it. I'm sure it's a foolish reference, but I don't really have time to go over a movie I only saw twice in a lifetime.

"Those are this Clays tags, aren't they?" I'm honestly surprised when it comes out gently form my mouth, the rush of jumping a former army member leaving my body numb. The mask is long gone, his face twisting in pain fueled anger. Something truly did happen to have such a grip on him.

"…Yes." He chokes, head lowering as he attempts to sober himself up.

"What happened to him, Desmond?" He ignores the fact I called him by his name, releasing one of my wrists to repeatedly smack his forehead as if the motion will rid him of whatever is coming to mind. "This is a reason I'm here. This will be confidentially between us."

"No…" He lets go of me, crushing his palms into his eyes. He's sitting on me, and he weighs a ton, but that doesn't matter right now. "I don't…want…go fuck yourself!"

"What happened to Clay, Desmond?" He slouches, moving enough to remove his weight off of me. He almost shrinks in on himself; eyes open as his hands move to clutch his head.

"He…they…I…" He breathed in deep, hands dropping from his head, supporting him as he crossed his legs. I had a feeling he couldn't use his legs too well, either. His lids fluttered, hand brushing across the tags as if they held the answer, or the okay to tell what happened to their owner.

"He's dead."

How, is the most traumatizing thing he tells me.

**A month. I fail. Okay, next few chapters are going to rotate around past Desmond and-you guessed it- the demise of Clay. I'd really like reviews, please.**


	6. More dents than you think

**Whew I just cannot seem to sit my ass down and get this stuff done lately! (Well I'm always on my ass but you get it) any way I won't keep ya long. Next chapter away!**

"_**When you get to the end of your rope. Tie a knot and hang on." **_

― _**Franklin D. Roosevelt**_

**November 9****th****, six years prior**

It was hot. Psh, it was always hot- what did it matter in a place like this? Desmond had grown used to the dry heat of Afghanistan, holding a new habit of wearing his military cap all around base. It was thick-it made his head feel congested and gross-but it indeed kept him from getting overheated from the beating rays that never had clouds to conceal them.

"Full house." Jonas gloated with a tip of his sweat drenched head as he spread out the grimy cards. Desmond huffed with resignation and slapped his own hand down in surrender. He never got the knack of poker, or Texas hold 'em. Even after his entire year-nearing and a half- on the city boy populated base. Well. He just didn't have any skill with gambling, period.

"I don't know why I bother doin this. You beat me every time!" Jonas laughs, his green eyes looking a bit better than they had a few weeks ago. So tired, the loss of a different kind of innocence- obvious through the whole battlefield. Desmond felt it too; his boots may have become lighter, but his eyes and heart felt pathetically weak. He didn't like taking lives; he didn't like seeing bodies strewn across the sandy ground of the foreign country, he didn't like the mornings where alarms screeched into the sky. But hey, he knew what he was getting into when he signed up. That didn't mean he tried to hope for a desk or infirmary job.

Ground control wasn't as easy as some of spiteful city dwellers believed. Besides the other poor sobs that earned the position. Desmond hasn't met the other teams, and he probably never will. Patrols were frequent; the only time they stayed on campus was for supply refills- Attacks on neutral ground had become concerning-dare Desmond say they weren't patrols anymore, more like the most twisted camping trips he ever experienced…all that time in no man's land gets to a person, you know. Desmond had shot more people the past month than his father's favorite actor. He was never a deep sleeper, but now his dark brown eyes flashed open at the smallest rustle, handgun within fingers reach every night. Sometimes the team got no sleep at all if they got an update of possible ambush. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't in his control anymore.

At least Clay brought some light into the gloomy situation.

Ah, Clay; how the man managed to stay sarcastic and composed would forever baffle Desmond. He bounced back with more vigor than someone half his age, almost unstoppable when out in battle. Desmond had learned a few too many dirty tricks from him. The older freely voiced how proud he was of Desmond and Jonas, happy with their progress and attitudes. Desmond smirks as he remembers Clay's words just a few weeks ago.

"_Smartest fucking kids I've had…"_

Desmond didn't enjoy the title 'kid.' He was nineteen now, Jonas jokingly saying they'll have a belated party on leave. But it was also kind of nice to know Clay still saw them for something more than just rough tough soldiers. His major was sharper than the average war superior; his casual appearance away from the fight was comforting, his Cheshire grin infectious, and his respectful attitude a good splash of reality. The man was older than him by nearly twelve years, but he hardly acted that way. At least the way he spoke.

He had a mixture of upbringings-Clay had explained one boring night on patrol-He spent thirteen years of his life in Colorado near the same area Desmond had, but moved to the heart of Los Angeles after his Father was offered a high paying job. That mix of two different lifestyles left him with the casual, sarcastic personality of someone in the city, mixed with the laid back movement and slur of someone raised in the more isolated parts of America. When he turned nineteen he was actually recruited into the army, intentions to stay behind the lines with the computers. "As you can tell, that didn't work out well!" He had chortled, with a lazy flick of his knife in his hand.

It had been an interesting night all around.

"Des, you okay? Kind of spaced out there." Jonas was rounding up the cards, the hot summer-like weather even dampening his mood for a day of no profit gambling.

"Just thinking…." He drones, removing his hat to swipe some of the sweat off his brow.

"Sure hope it's about our next destination." Clay drawled as he strolled loosely towards the younger members. "Just got a message from lieutenant about that other ground team going missing." The blonde stopped in front of the two, hot weather forcing the man to roll up his sleeves, marred arms exposed. Desmond had seen them before, but the paler scars that lashed and skittered across his guardians arms never failed to send a chill down his spine. Some were long and wicked from knife wounds, others shrapnel. One even looked like a bite mark. They were a wicked symbol of his time in the force. Of his time fighting when the feds said "sick 'em."

"Oh? And how does that include us." Desmond inquired as Jonas proceeded to stand up from their spot. Clay cocked his hip in a way that meant he wasn't pleased. With what always depended on the news. So strange Desmond was already accustomed to Clay and Jonas' movements, knew their breathing patterns, and knew the tone of their footsteps. He would've considered it creepy if it wasn't a vital part of team work and survival.

"You're not gonna like this, but we're going into the heart of enemy territory. We have to get information of some hostage program they have going on. That's where the other team disappeared." The blondes face displayed his distaste, discomfort in such an assignment for two not quite fresh soldiers that still flinched at a gunshot. 'Dumb mother fucker is going to get these boys killed…'

"You're joking." Jonas groans with his own distaste.

"Wish I was." Clay mutters as he lifted his head in reflex when an ally plane purred over the sky. The frown etched into his face only deepened as the seconds passed. Desmond puffs a breath and pushes himself up, heat of his clothes feeling scorching from where the sun had beat upon them. Newly fit arms lift and drop in a movement of resignation. Brown meet blue in a lazy, friend like lock that has a smirk slowly melting onto Clay's aggravated face.

"Let's go get our gold star!" The ironic and slightly cruel quip has Clay throwing his head back in a laugh that pulls Jonas and Desmond in. The blondes arms circle the two young men's necks, nearly dragging them as they walked in a trio, Clay's hands patting there uniform clad chests in unison. He glances at both before clicking his tongue in a thoughtful manner, the young fighters waiting for him to speak.

"You guys are alright. Tell ya what, when we finish this bull mission, I'm takin you out for a drink on leave." Jonas scoffed, stumbling over himself due to both Desmond and Clay's fast pace.

"We're not legal back home." Desmond mentions-his mother's voice coming to mind. Her scolding tone towards the talk of alcohol. God he misses her…maybe he should write. The grin that crosses their partners face would be frightening if it were anyone else, those pale blue eyes holding something twisted and growing in intensity as age comes to the equation. But the concerning descent in an unknown threat is doused by the brightness of his smile, the lightness of his voice, and the casual demeanor that the two slowly growing boys fed off of for support.

"When you're a soldier? No one cares!"

Clay drags them off in a tangle of feet and brotherly laughter; something Desmond has never experienced being an only child. It feels surprisingly nice, the heat between them almost unbearable, but the lightness in their minds and bodies making it just tolerable enough to keep it enjoyable.

Little did Desmond know it'd be a long, long time before he laughed again.

Xxx

The sun is non-existent when Desmond wakes up, too early for the morning drill, but too late to catch enough sleep if he were to close his eyes again. So he dresses quietly- his cap still damp from the beaming heat from the past few days. He does not get up right away when the last lace on his boot is tied; he sits on his hard, springy mattress as the weight of the day comes to mind. He was delving into enemy territory, where mines and snipers and camouflaged fighters lay in wait for their arrival. These assholes were irrationally violent, but they were smart.

Was Desmond ready for such an assignment? The possible threat of other soldiers' lives, the lack of safety…this was much more different than patrols. Than taking on a straggler. This was a full out rescue/ investigation. He was still young; at least in mindful people's opinions. High superiors could care less about his age; if he shot to kill and listened to them, he was a full out pro in their eyes. Clay had been distant through the whole talk through of the coordinates, his 'major' side exposed as the lieutenant barked and pointed at the map below his fingers. At least what Desmond _saw_. He and Jonas had been ordered to stay at the entrance of the tent while the oldest two spoke over strategies.

When Clay had re-appeared, he had looked even more irritated than his entrance. He'd looked tired, as if he fought and lost the worst battle of his life. This scared Desmond, and he was sure it had scared Jonas. Desmond couldn't forget the look in Clay's eyes when he met his deep brown ones, the unknown resignation and anger. But when Clay spoke, none of this was shown he rolled his shoulders, giving a sigh as if it had been boring. His eyes faded back to the near vacant, steady gaze that fitted his face.

"Get some sleep. We've got work to do." When he passed, Clay patted the duo's shoulders, un- aware of the younger fighters watching him hiss and cuss as he walked away from the light of the tents, night swallowing him. Jonas had given Desmond one soft, frightened glance before heading off to his tent.

Desmond breathed a sigh, pushing up off his bed and out into the cooler, but still burning air of early morning. No sun-not yet at least. The moon was only a mere crescent, without its bright brilliance Desmond enjoyed. But the stars…they were out and alive, glistening and sparkling even stronger than back home. The sight woke Desmond up enough to begin a steady trudge. It had been too long since he had been able to appreciate what had kept him up so many nights back home. The nostalgic act felt almost saddening; because he wasn't surrounded by what he loved most. There was no Buster snoozing next to him, no father to pop quiz him on his constellations, and no mother to coax her boys inside.

The stars were the same as home, but it wasn't home.

"Goddamn, thought I was the only one." The voice tears through Desmond's thoughts, scaring him more than it should have-after all, he was a solider now. The voice is familiar-the lazy drawl deepened by obvious lack of sleep. So when he turns there's only a bit of surprise when he finds Clay. Desmond fumbles to salute.

"Major Ka-"

"Not now, Des. Just…Clay, alright? No one else is around." Desmond feels a sliver of heat crawl to his face, the awkwardness that had singled him out in the beginning butting its head for a brief moment. He drops his hand back to his side.

"Oh…uh, Clay-what are you doing out?" It's a question that sets up for rebuttal, but Clay doesn't take the accidental bait. He puffs a breath, looking away from Desmond to the barely lit ground below.

"To be honest, I don't know. Been out here all night." The two start to walk again, side by side.

"Can't sleep?"

"Can't _stay still_." It's meant to be a joke, but it come out as a bitter statement. Desmond purses his lip and gives a rock in his footing a rough kick. It skitters across the dusty ground, coming to a halt a good foot or two away. He takes a peek at Clay, and sees something he hasn't even seen on the field. The poor man looks defeated, angry at something that doesn't care. He looks his age for the first time. It makes Desmond sad; selfishly wishing the grinning, snarky major would make an appearance. He had grown so used to that side of his captain that this side was hard to swallow.

"You know, when I was younger I always wanted to get a tattoo." Desmond is thrown off by the 180 in conversation, blinking confusedly at the blonde. Said blonde chuckles, his step tottering to the side for a moment. "I used to be obsessed with them. I wanted ink all over me-big elaborate works with the deepest meanings possible. But when I joined the force, they lost their luster."

"Why's that?" Desmond probed. Clay seems to study him after the question, his ice blue eyes looking more intense with the contrast of the dark. He started to pull up his sleeves, the scars appearing sharper against his skin. Desmond had a miniature heart attack when Clay began to unbutton his uniform almost all the way to where it tucker into his pants.

"Wh-"But Desmond stopped when he saw the larger, darker scars almost dragging down Clay's chest, bullet, knife and-good lord were those from nails?! These were from unexpected attacks, desperate fights to escape an enemy's clutches, to make it out alive. His heart sunk at the realization Clay had been through more hell that he let himself believe.

He peers up to his major's tired gaze, noticing the bags under the bright blue eyes. Hands move to re-button his shirt before the slip into pockets, the silence feeling heavier as the heat of morning began to touch of what skin was exposed.

"I figured those were enough permanent shit for me." Desmond felt sick; fingers brushing against his clothed chest with a shiver. He already had a few healing wounds that would surely become scars, but nothing like what Clay had-or any other elder on base. That's why Clay treated him-them- so casually. Because he already lost innocence beyond belief and the last thing he wanted to do was take away someone else's with angry, loud words that only pushed the victim into darker thoughts.

No one did that for Clay.

The sun was starting to rise, the heat of the air hardening into something smoldering. Desmond jumps at the weight of hand on his shoulder, eyes coming to terms with Clay's for the hundredth time that morning. They were bright indeed-in so many ways-but something had cracked them; taken something away that could never be returned. Desmond felt stronger, steadier the longer the two stood together in the dead middle of the camp. If Clay could hold his head up high at the worst of moments, so could he.

Clay smiles-a genuine smile that has one stretching across Desmond's scarred lips to return. It vanishes when a hot hand covers his face and playfully shoves his head back in a manner that would have half the base generals in tizzy. Clay's laugh would have been annoying if Desmond himself hadn't found it amusing himself. An uncovered, scarred arm links around his neck in a big brother fashion, pulling him forward towards the mess hall.

"C'mon, ya country boy. Let's get some of Mario's mystery meat. We'll meet up with Jonas there." The seriousness of the situation faded, the blonde showing that those words, those scars, were Desmond's knowledge only. Why? Desmond didn't know. And frankly he wasn't going to dig into old wounds.

OoO

"I don't understand…why did he only show _you_ this?" I question, the spell of Desmond's words leaving so much behind it hurt. He sits across from me on his couch, the tags clutched in his hand. His eyes come to me, the burning in them harsher than before.

"I don't know." He states, looking away as if the television would give him an answer. I let my eyes crawl across his tattoo again, the face that taunted you once you saw it showing more life-more light than its owner. His shoulders are slumped as if telling only the beginning of his story burned his energy. So far it sounded like Clay had been more than just a mere war partner. A friend, perhaps. Maybe go as distant as a brother figure. He trusted Desmond, and Desmond trusted him. How this grew within a year baffles me.

But I guess when there's a chance of death without the loyalty of your teammates, it's befriend or be dead. I tap my pen against my notepad, watching Desmond twitch and squirm as the silence ate him inside. He had held it in so long; this guilt, the anger, whatever is feeding this insanity. Now he was releasing it in a rush of a story that started it all. He was reaching something that hadn't been even acknowledged for years.

"Did you ever ask?"

The viciousness in his eyes told me I had said the wrong thing.

"There was never time to ask. There wasn't time for anything. No time…" He muttered, rolling into himself, shivering with a sort of shock I'd never been able to deal with. This man was beyond broken. I know why, I just hope I can figure out how.

**Christ thought this would never get done. *falls off cliff.* BUT it is and I feel proud because this is much better than the previous chapter! Thanks for your patience that I immediately destroyed with a cliffhanger again. I bet everyone hates me. TATA**

**(BTW I COULD USE A NEW-OR MY PREVIOUS BETA WHO I LOST TIES WITH BECAUSE MY GRAMMAR HAS GOTTEN HORRENDOUS AND I COULD USE THE HELP. PM ME IF YOU'RE INTERESTED PLZ)**


	7. the time comes

**I apologize immensely. But inspiration has been a bit nonexistent and I'd rather not give you something dull thanks to writers block **

"_**Awareness is the enemy of sanity, for once you hear the screaming, it never stops." **_

― _**Emilie Autumn**_

**November 10th, six years prior**

The ride was anything but pleasant in many aspects; not only was it rough-the jeep seeming to aim for every bump and crater on the trail-the tension was heavy in the small space as silence continued to be the only thing exchanged. Desmond wished he had a way to break the space between him and his companions, but it felt inappropriate as they grew closer to their destination. The lightness that Clay had layed upon them was not in sight, the source of their good attitudes in his own cage of professional behavior, staring past Desmond in utter thought.

Jonas was also in a state of 'no more games' belief, the semi-rifle making the usually sweet boy look threatening in his combat gear.

Desmond didn't want to know how he looked; his lack of sleep starting to creep into his back and his dark eyes feeling heavy under the heat of the desert outside. The fears that had woken him cause him to tighten his grip on the weapon in his hands, lips pursing in an anxious motion. The possibilities of death were endless as soon as they stepped into the rampaged land, likeliness of never going home larger than defending a position.

It made him physically sick thinking of how he could die.

He was torn out of his thoughts when the jeep fell and jumped back out of a large crevice, making heads nearly slam into the roof of the vehicle. Jonas scrambles to readjust his helmet to conceal his eyes while Clay simply scoots back onto his rear end a bit. The small scare wears off and leaves the weight of situation in its place again. It's worrying that Clay isn't speaking-perhaps that's why Desmond felt so much anxiety. Even on their risky patrols the Major made conversation and cracked jokes, distracting his partners of the dead littered on their base or the burning of buildings. Maybe that wasn't very beneficial after all.

"There's our stop, boys." The blonde speaks after a good half hour of traveling, his head raised to see through the damage prepped window. Jonas doesn't respond except for a tip of his gun. Desmond refused to see the clone of the rest of the war zone, instead focusing on his sand dusted boots. He catches Clay straitening in his view, setting his own fire arms butt on the hard upholstery below his feet.

"Okay, the plan is too stop right at the entrance of the village, and split up from there to investigate. Stay in Radio contact and keep an eye out for survivors. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." The now automatic response came from the youths in unison. There was no time for the brotherly words Clay knew the duo needed. So he ran his tongue over his teeth before he moved to the driver.

"Get us at least a half a klick away from the location."

"Aye, sir. The coordinates are showing that right now we're about three-"But the veteran driver never finished his sentence; a single high caliber bullet piercing his head. Blood spattered all across the window, the dead body reeling from the force and taking the steering wheel with it.

"SHIT!" The outburst was the only warning Desmond and Jonas got before the single ton vehicle whirled onto its side, rolling downhill in a furious cycle of dust and glass. As embarrassing as it was, Desmond screamed, trying to control his body from giving to the abuse it was taking. Clay was trying to move in the constant rise and slam of the destroyed war truck, Jonas holding on for dear life as he too was pushed into the slowly destroyed sides of their transportation.

Clays' weight finally gets the best of him as he's almost rocketed into the busted side window of the jeep on its fifth-fourth?- tumble, giving a sharp cry of pain as glass cut into his exposed skin. Desmond is also victim of the dizzying movement, giving up on his fight and landing back first into Clay. Jonas still doesn't let go of the leverage he had gained, but he shouts in either pain or shock as glass scatters around him.

Then the jeep gives one more 'thump' landing belly side up as dust settle around it.

The three lie in shock as the last few loose pieces of glass fall to gravity, a whole new silence coming into space. It's obvious the car is totaled, the sides around the trio almost crushed into them. Clay is the first to move, carefully coaxing a shaken Desmond off of him, leaving blood on the boys' uniform from his cut hands. Jonas slowly loosens his grip on the window bar, his body twisted and bent from the throwing about. He too is coated in little nicks from the flying glass and shrapnel. Desmond moves next, his body aching from the impact to Clay and the utter pain in his left hand. He examines it, the trembling appendage bruised with little trickles of blood coming from fine gashes.

He only voices his fright when the three are out of the ruined war asset onto the gravelly sand of their trail, Clay having to use every ounce of strength he had to kick the door off its hinges. "W-What the hell just happened?!" His voice was raspy from the screams he had emitted earlier in the dangerous topple. Clay stands, his own body objecting to the use of his joints to peek over the exposed underside of the vehicle.

"Ambushed. They don't want us here, that much is obvious." Jonas rests on his knees as he checks his bag for medical supplies.

"Should we radio the base? Or run the rest of the way?" Clay shakes his head in contemplation, his adrenaline touched pupils spanning over the few to no hiding spots across. His eyes slit in focus on a speck a good few hundred feet away.

"I don't know…we're sitting ducks right now either way. The best thing right now is-FUCK!" Clay ducks when a bullet ricochets off the metal of the jeep just inches from his head. He comes back down to the ground with a hiss of relief. Desmond and Jonas hurry him to his knees- his injured hands coated in a mixture of sand and blood. So Desmond makes it his responsibility to treat his superior.

None have an idea what to do. Whoever harbors the sniper that took their drivers life was evidently patient, and ready to wait out the blistering sun with the targets. Desmond risk as well to get a look at their opponent, a bullet coming so close he could feel the afterglow of the force near his face.

The sick fuck across wants to keep them pinned like mice. But Clay doubts they have enough resources to play the waiting game. He watches Jonas help Desmond with a bandage, both of his men banged up and still recovering from the small disaster. He needs to get these boys home safe. He can't guarantee they'll be mentally stable in the end, or without their own scars. But they _will_ get home to the ones that are waiting for them.

So Clay hesitantly cranes neck around the edge of the jeep, begging himself to catch sight of that speck again. It takes a moment, flinching at noises resembling gunshots, but his sharp blue eyes finally catch the dark silhouette sneaking about across the wasteland.

"Psst-one of you hand me my rifle." He whispers, closing his numb fingers around the hot weapon when the weight moved his hand. He ignores the twinge in his back due to his awkward position and aims, using the low key scope in a desperate attempt to nail the constant moving bastard.

It's a trial and failure process, having the target one moment and losing him the next due to a movement of Clay's arm or the frustrating shaking of his body. Both Desmond and Jonas stay perfectly still behind their authoritive officer, watching him raise and drop his gun.

After a painstakingly long wait, the killer grew lazy in his avoidance of sight, raising his head to see if the victims of his bullet were still there. Big mistake. "Gotcha." He slurs, pulling the trigger without any effort.

_**BANG**_

The bullet is in his throat before he hears it, dropping dead to the scorching ground as blood pools out of his wound. Clay drops his arms and sighs in relief as he moves out of the awful pose. "Okay…sniper's taken out. We can get a move on."

OoO

The trek is painfully long, the sun beating on their backs and draining what little energy the adrenaline from earlier had provided. But they push on until they're at the edge of the ruined village, homes nothing but rubble and the dirt below stained with blood and scorch marks. Fresh and aged bodies layed strewed where they fell, absolutely mutilated. It was an obvious war aftermath. It hurts Desmond to imagine the lives taken away just because of their space between two rivals. He trips over an abandoned makeshift doll, the face soiled by dried blood. Oh…god. Jonas must have had the same train of thought, the smaller stumbling on his feet in either pity or horror. Desmond jots out to catch him, and he feels the soft heaves coming from his friend.

This was far beyond what they saw on their patrols.

But Clay urges them into composition, showing them the first sign of tenderness since that morning in the mess hall. His busted hands rest on their stiff shoulders in encouragement, a brief but meaningful touch.

"We've got work to do here." He murmurs, putting distance between him and the no longer rookies. He heaves a breath before the face of a Major covers the Clay they knew.

"Okay, here's the plan; we split three ways to cover ground and gather up intel." He shows his partners their routes to take. If you come across any remainders of the other GC team, radio me. Is that clear?"

The two young men salute in the unison that was drilled in their heads, unknowling tugging at the heart strings of their supervisor.

"Yes, sir." Clay nodded, un-holstering his weapon he prepared to go his own route. Desmond hesitates before turning himself opposite of his commanding officer, leaving Jonas to do the same. He clicked on his radio strapped to his thigh and gets ready to cover the large wasteland-

"Des!" Jonas calls, probably the worst choice the fellow country boy has made since meeting him. Even knowing that he possibly blew their cover-if they had any to begin with-he turns to meet the soft green eyes of his friend, who suddenly seemed incredibly small in his battle gear and assault rifle in hand. That was quite a feat considering the other had gained a good amount of muscle during their vigorous training.

"I…in case we don't um…come back in one piece, Miles;" The struggle to not sound too emotional as he still nearly shouted across the few feet between them. "You're a great guy, a great friend and I hope I can always say 'are,' never 'was.'" Desmond feels a smile come across his lips for the first time in hours, cocking his hip as if he were not in the middle of an abandoned war zone.

"I'm flattered, Jo; I didn't know you swung that way." He knows he ruined the moment as Jonas' shoulders slack in expected humorous annoyance.

"Kill the mood, country boy." But the grin on the lads face is confirmation enough to know he understood what the less shut up male was saying. Then they spilt, Jonas going west with him going east towards the markets. He stops for a moment, a flutter in his stomach making him frown. The weight in his feet and shoulders was far too insistent to be ignored. He tosses on last glance at Jonas' retreating back, a dark cloud coming over his mind as he grew smaller. Something didn't feel right. Desmond could sense it.

OoO

Desmond had lost track of time as he surveyed every pile of rubble and what few standing buildings there were, boredom slowly replacing the paranoia and high anticipation from earlier. The heat had become awful within his time of searching; his helmet feeling fused to his forehead and his armory twice its weight on his back. He was careful with his canteen, only taking a small swallow of water every once in a while. He hadn't found a single source of water yet and he wasn't taking chances.

His legs were used to constant walking, so the steady tingle in his legs was not a problem in the least. His gloves soaked a good amount of the sweat collecting on the palms of his hands. But the distraction of that itching feeling in his chest-something he inherited from his father. He couldn't help the sense of trouble coming ahead, every noise earning his attention welcomed with the aim of his handgun. It ended being nothing at all every time.

The constant cycle would be maddening if there wasn't a tempting promise of a reunion with his squad, the brief updates from his radio doing nothing for his rising anxiety. It appears Clay encountered two fighters with two hostages and an injured member of the other team. He was going to call in a heli as soon as he met back up with them. Jonas admitted he had gotten lost for a few miles but was back on track. He kicks a rock to the side, listening to the clack it gave as is hit the edge of a home.

As fucked up as it was-the anxiety eating at his head and the never ending feeling of 'doom'- Desmond found peace in the silence surrounding him. Maybe because he had grown to be an introvert during his raising on the farm. It was always quiet, but never dead. It had been the sort of quiet that lulled you to sleep with the soft whish of the wind and the subtle creak of your bed when you shifted.

The silence around him now was not sleep inducing, but it was indeed better than the shout of enemies and the orders from his commanders. It was an off key taste of home. And he'd take it.

"Miles. Come in Miles. Over" Jonas' voice crackles onto his radio, breaking the silence Desmond savored.

"Miles here. Status on you location, over."

"Closing in on the rendezvous-I contacted Major K, he's almost there as well with his find."

"Roger. I'll contact you when I reach my next checkpoint."

"Understood." But as Jonas spoke, a dark figure flashed in the corner of Desmonds' eye, tearing his focus from the path ahead towards a beaten home barely standing. Suspicion pulls him closer, heart starting to notice the new stimulation. His boots crunch against greater amounts of gravel as he gets closer, pistol just above his hips in a defensive stance. The air is somehow thinner inside the dusty ruins, the anxiousness that had ate at Desmond all day amplifying the moment he stepped into the home.

The entire place was either charred or torn down, furniture in just as bad shape and the walls chipping from the force it was taking. It was just as sad a sight as the rest of the village.

There was nothing there; inside or under the cracked windows, or in the near crumbling closet. The place was as dead as the rest. Desmond feels foolish; his lack of sleep must be getting to him. He scoffs at his own actions and turns to leave the space-then something hard slams into the space between his shoulders. He stumbles to the floor, his bandaged hand give a throng of pain from the impact. He could already feel a soft throb forming into a bruise. A voice; angry and loud screams a language at him he knows is the enemy's, kicking out his balance when he tries to get up.

A faint trail of panic lines his body as he tries to maintain awareness of where the man was without looking up, the threat of another blow in the heated air. His heart is racing and his body is thrumming with more adrenaline than any patrol could conjure. Not even the incident from earlier can compare. The looming of death is there, waiting for him. So he takes a great risk

Desmond flips his body and reels his leg into the air, finding resistance when the edge of his boot meets the opponents' stomach. With a wicked thunk the air is taken from his lungs with one blow, the enemy dropping to his knees as he gives a forceful groan. Desmond doesn't take a chance, slamming the flat of the same foot into the man's face, making him fall into unconsciousness with a stream of blood gushing from his nose. The silence that follows is heavy, static like with fading tension.

Desmond heaves a breath after breath as the rush drains from his body, leaving him shaking in his uniform. He scrambles away from the limp body, the mans' back still rising and falling. Should he kill him? In case he wakes up and comes after him? No. No, Desmond. Just get to the rendezvous and finish this. On trembling legs he stands, bending down to retrieve the hand gun he had dropped.

The weight and of what just happened reminds him where he is. He is not at the camp playing cards with Jonas.

He is not out on patrol where Clay distracts him with stories.

He's in no man's land with vicious, relentless fighters that send their own into doom in hopes of taking out others. He suddenly feels sick, watching the blood from the man's nose finally stop. He wants to go home. He's tired of this place in every aspect of tired.

"_Miles-come in. What the hell is going on?"_ It's Clay. He mechanically reaches for the radio as he continues to back away from the body and out of the room.

"Major I- I ran into an issue. It's taken care of now."

"_Good. Hurry your ass up-I can practically see slim in the horizon."_

"Yes sir." Desmond turns around, his focus coming to a charging figure giving a war cry just feet away. "WHA-"

The world goes black, the only thing Desmond hearing as his ears come to terms with his brain is Clay shouting his name in a desperate crackle.

**CLIMAX! **


	8. Adoption offer

**Sorry guys not an update**

**An offer**

**If anyone enjoys For the Love of Sanity enough, it's up for adoption.**

**I just don't have the drive or inspiration for it anymore as I'm focusing on Sullys' secret and another project.**

**But if someone wants to take the reins message me and let me know.**

**If I don't get any responses in…let's say two-three weeks, I'm just going to take it down **


End file.
